PART 3 — THE WOMAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SLEEPING
The black sedan stopped behind the police cars.
Before the driver could walk around to open the door, Rosalind pushed it open herself.
She stepped onto the driveway wearing one shoe.
Her gray hair, normally pinned so neatly that even the wind respected it, hung over one side of her face. A purple bruise circled her left wrist.
But her eyes were clear.
And she was still pointing at Curtis.
“That man,” she said. “Do not let that man leave.”
Curtis took one step backward.
Bridget caught his arm.
“Do not say anything,” she whispered.
One of the officers heard her.
“Sir, ma’am, please remain where you are.”
The man in the gray suit climbed out of the passenger side of the sedan. He was tall, perhaps sixty, with silver at his temples and a leather folder tucked beneath his arm.
He showed the officers his identification.
“Adrian Cole. State Elder Protection Unit.”
Bridget’s hand dropped from Curtis’s arm.
That frightened her more than the police had.
Mr. Cole looked at me.
“Mrs. Eleanor Hale?”
“Yes.”
“Are you injured?”
“Not yet.”
His eyes moved toward Bridget’s open car, the stolen silver chest on my porch and the folder in my hands.
“Is that your property?”
“The chest is mine. The documents are mine. The car belongs to Bridget.”
Bridget lifted her chin.
“They were placed in my car for safekeeping.”
Rosalind gave a weak laugh.
“You also placed me in Fairview for safekeeping.”
I went to her.
She smelled like hospital soap and something bitter.
“What did they give you?”
“I do not know.”
“Can you stand?”
“I can stand long enough to watch your son get arrested.”
Curtis stared at her.
“Rosalind, I was trying to help you.”
“You told me Eleanor had fallen.”
My chest tightened.
Rosalind held my arm and faced the officers.
“He came to my house yesterday afternoon. He said Eleanor was in the hospital and asking for me.”
Curtis shook his head.
“That is not what happened.”
“He had flowers,” Rosalind continued. “Yellow roses. Eleanor hates yellow roses, which should have been my first clue.”
“I do not hate them.”
“You said they look apologetic.”
“That is not the same as hate.”
Despite everything, Rosalind smiled at me.
Then her smile disappeared.
“He said there was no time to call. I got into his truck. He drove past the hospital.”
One officer began writing.
“What happened when you questioned him?” he asked.
“Curtis locked the doors.”
“I did not lock anything,” Curtis said. “The doors lock automatically.”
“You increased your speed when I reached for the handle.”
“Because you were trying to jump out of a moving vehicle.”
“I was trying to escape from a moving vehicle.”
Bridget stepped forward.
“This is ridiculous. She is confused.”
Rosalind turned toward her.
“My full name is Rosalind Marie Pike. I was born on August nineteenth, nineteen forty-five. My address is fourteen Bishop Lane. My bank is First County, but my savings are not there, no matter what your spreadsheet says.”
Mr. Cole looked sharply at the folder in my hands.
“What spreadsheet?”
I handed it to him.
He read the first page.
Then the second.
His expression did not change, but the officer beside him stopped writing and looked over his shoulder.
“Where did you find this?” Mr. Cole asked.
“Under my silver chest in Bridget’s car.”
“May I take it?”
“After you give me a receipt.”
He looked at me for a moment.
Then he nodded.
“That is exactly what you should request.”
He removed a clear evidence sleeve from his case.
Bridget watched every movement.
“This is a family misunderstanding,” she said.
Mr. Cole placed the spreadsheet inside the sleeve.
“Mrs. Martin, my unit has been investigating Fairview Senior Residence for eleven weeks. Family misunderstandings do not normally involve property estimates for six unrelated widows.”
The color left Bridget’s face.
Curtis turned to her.
“You said the investigation was closed.”
Everyone heard him.
Bridget closed her eyes.
“Curtis,” she said softly, “stop talking.”
He pointed at her.
“This was her idea.”
Bridget’s eyes opened.
“What?”
“And Denise’s. I only signed what they gave me.”
“You drove Rosalind to Fairview.”
“Because you said she had dementia.”
“She does.”
Rosalind raised her hand.
“Officer, may I strike her?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I thought I should ask first.”
Ronnie covered a cough that might have been a laugh.
Mr. Cole turned toward Curtis.
“Who is Denise?”
“My wife’s sister.”
“Where is she now?”
“I do not know.”
Bridget answered too quickly.
“At home.”
Curtis looked at her.
“No, she is not.”
The two of them stared at each other.
For the first time, I saw something stronger than their fear of me.
They were afraid of Denise.
Mr. Cole noticed it too.
“Where is she?” he repeated.
Curtis said nothing.
Bridget folded her arms.
“I want an attorney.”
“You are free to contact one,” the officer said. “But nobody is leaving until we determine what happened here.”
Rosalind squeezed my hand.
“Eleanor, the papers.”
“What about them?”
“The originals are safe.”
I looked at her.
She smiled, but it was not her bridge-club smile.
It was the smile of a woman who had hidden an ace in her sleeve.
“The folder in Bridget’s car contains copies,” she said. “The originals have never been in my Buick.”
Bridget stared at her.
“You knew?”
“Not at first.”
Rosalind looked at me.
“Three weeks ago, Denise came to my house collecting donations for the church roof.”
“Our church repaired the roof two years ago,” I said.
“I know. I was on the committee.”
Rosalind continued.
“She stood in my hallway and looked at everything except me. The stairs. The locks. The mail on the table. The photographs of my sister and me.”
“I was being polite,” Bridget said.
“You were not there.”
Bridget’s mouth closed.
Rosalind looked at Mr. Cole.
“After Denise left, I called my nephew, Peter. He works in insurance investigations. He told me to make copies of anything suspicious and keep the originals somewhere nobody connected to me would search.”
“Where are they?” Mr. Cole asked.
Rosalind shook her head.
“I will tell you after my attorney arrives.”
I nearly smiled.
Mr. Cole did.
“Mrs. Pike, I believe you and Mrs. Hale are going to make my job considerably easier.”
“Do not count on it,” Rosalind said. “I charge by the hour.”
A female officer approached Bridget’s car and looked through the open back door.
“Mrs. Hale, you said the silver chest belongs to you?”
“Yes.”
“And you did not authorize its removal?”
“No.”
The officer looked at Bridget.
“Do you consent to a search of the vehicle?”
“No.”
Curtis spoke at the same time.
“Yes.”
Bridget spun toward him.
“It is my car.”
“I paid for it.”
“The title is in my name.”
The officer raised one hand.
“That answers the question. Nobody touch the vehicle.”
She called something over her radio.
Bridget’s shoulders relaxed slightly.
Mr. Cole noticed.
“What else is in that car?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“That is a dangerous answer when we can all see stolen property through an open door.”
“I said I was protecting it.”
“From whom?”
Bridget looked at me.
“From Eleanor.”
Curtis stepped away from her.
Even he understood how bad that sounded.
Mr. Cole opened his leather folder.
“Mrs. Martin, are you employed by Fairview Senior Residence?”
“No.”
“Have you ever received payment from Fairview?”
“No.”
“Have you received payment from a company called Hearthstone Transition Services?”
Bridget did not answer.
Curtis looked at her.
“What company?”
“I said I want a lawyer.”
Mr. Cole turned to Curtis.
“Have you heard of Hearthstone?”
“No.”
“Have you signed any documents bearing that name?”
“I sign dozens of documents. I run a business.”
“You repair swimming pools,” I said.
Curtis glared at me.
“That is a business.”
“You have repaired three pools this year.”
“That is not relevant.”
Mr. Cole pulled out a photograph.
I could not see it clearly, but Curtis could.
He stopped breathing for a moment.
The photograph showed a restaurant table.
Bridget sat on one side.
Denise sat beside her.
Curtis sat across from them.
A fourth person had his back to the camera.
There were envelopes on the table.
Mr. Cole held up a second photograph.
In it, Curtis was placing one of the envelopes inside his jacket.
“When was that?” Bridget asked.
Mr. Cole ignored her.
“Mr. Hale?”
Curtis’s voice was low.
“It was a consulting payment.”
“For what consultation?”
“I introduced someone to someone else.”
“Which someone?”
Curtis looked at Bridget.
She looked away.
I had seen him do that since he was a boy.
Whenever he had broken something, he searched the room for someone who might accept part of the blame.
This time, there was no one.
“What was in the envelope?” I asked.
“Mom, stay out of this.”
“You brought it to my driveway.”
“I did not bring the police.”
“No. You only brought forged papers, a false doctor and a plan to take my house.”
His face twisted.
“You were going to leave it to me anyway.”
The words were quiet.
They hurt more because of that.
I looked at my only son.
“Was I?”
He stared at me.
“You always said the house would be mine.”
“I said this house would stay in the family.”
“I am the family.”
“No, Curtis. You are a member of it. There is a difference.”
Bridget laughed once.
“You see? I told you. She was never going to give you anything.”
Curtis turned on her.
“Shut up.”
“You shut up. I lived with her for four years while you visited twice a month.”
“You lived here for free.”
“I cooked for her.”
“You ordered food using her credit card.”
“I took care of everything.”
“You complained every day.”
“And you took every check Denise gave you.”
The officer stepped between them.
“That is enough.”
But it was not enough for me.
“What checks?”
Curtis looked toward the street.
“Small referral payments.”
“For delivering women to Fairview?”
“I did not deliver anyone.”
Rosalind lifted her bruised wrist.
Curtis would not look at it.
Mr. Cole spoke carefully.
“Hearthstone Transition Services identifies elderly homeowners who may qualify for assisted living. Fairview admits them. A petition is filed claiming incapacity. Once a guardian gains control of the resident’s assets, Hearthstone arranges the sale of the property.”
My mouth went dry.
“And who buys the houses?”
“Different companies.”
“Owned by whom?”
“We are still determining that.”
Rosalind pointed at the spreadsheet.
“What happened to the other women?”
Mr. Cole did not answer immediately.
That was an answer itself.
“Marjorie Bell was placed at Fairview in March,” he finally said. “Her house sold seventeen days later.”
“I saw her at church in February,” I said. “She was perfectly capable.”
“She challenged the guardianship.”
“What happened?”
“She fell at Fairview before the hearing.”
Rosalind’s grip tightened around my hand.
“Fell how?”
“The facility reported that she became disoriented during the night.”
“Did she survive?”
Mr. Cole closed his folder.
“No.”
The driveway became very still.
Bridget looked at the ground.
Curtis whispered something I could not hear.
I stepped toward him.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Look at me.”
He did.
His eyes were wet.
“I did not know anyone would get hurt.”
“That is not the same as not knowing.”
“I thought they were moving people who could not live alone.”
“You thought they would pay you thousands of dollars for being helpful?”
“It was not thousands.”
Bridget made a disgusted sound.
Curtis turned toward her.
“You told me it was legal.”
“It is legal when the paperwork is done correctly.”
Rosalind stared at her.
A police officer reached for his handcuffs.
Bridget saw it.
“I did not mean that.”
“Yes, you did,” I said.
The officer placed Bridget’s hands behind her back.
She did not resist.
Instead, she looked directly at Curtis.
“Tell them about Walter.”
My heart stopped.
Curtis went pale.
“Do not.”
Bridget smiled.
It was the first honest expression I had seen on her face all day.
“Your precious mother deserves to know.”
Curtis moved toward her, but an officer blocked him.
“Bridget,” he warned.
She raised her voice.
“Ask him why your husband changed his will three days before he died.”
I stared at my son.
Walter had died fourteen years ago.
He had suffered a heart attack in our bedroom shortly after midnight. Curtis had arrived before the ambulance because he lived only two streets away then.
Walter’s will had been signed nine years earlier.
I knew because I was sitting beside him in Harold Finch’s office when he signed it.
“What is she talking about?” I asked.
Curtis shook his head.
“She is trying to distract you.”
“Was there another will?”
“No.”
“Curtis.”
“No.”
Bridget laughed again.
“Then why did you pay Denise to make it disappear?”
The officer holding her tightened his grip.
“Stop speaking.”
“I have a right to speak.”
“You requested an attorney.”
“I changed my mind.”
Mr. Cole stepped closer.
“Mrs. Martin, where is this will?”
Bridget looked at Curtis.
“You should have given me the house when I asked.”
Curtis’s face crumpled with rage.
“You said the copies were destroyed.”
“I said yours were.”
Mr. Cole watched them both.
“Where is the document?”
“In the car.”
Every face turned toward the vehicle.
The officer who had requested consent looked at Mr. Cole.
“We need the warrant.”
“It is already being prepared.”
Bridget smiled at me.
“You changed the locks one day too late, Eleanor.”
I walked toward her.
Ronnie reached for my arm, but I shook him off.
“What did Walter’s will say?”
She leaned closer.
“That the house never belonged to you.”
For a moment, I heard nothing.
Not the police radios.
Not the traffic at the end of the street.
Not Rosalind saying my name.
I heard Walter’s voice from fifty-two years earlier, standing in the empty dining room while rain struck the windows.
Our house, Ellie.
He had said our house.
We had chosen every room together.
I had paid the mortgage from my nursing salary during the two years his business nearly failed.
I had scrubbed the floors, planted the maples and held his hand in the bedroom where he died.
“What do you mean it never belonged to me?”
Bridget’s smile faded when she saw that I was not breaking.
She had expected tears.
Instead, I took one step closer.
“Whose name was in the will?”
She glanced toward the black sedan.
“Ask your friend Rosalind.”
I turned.
Rosalind looked as confused as I felt.
“I have never seen Walter’s will.”
“That is not what I meant,” Bridget said.
A judge approved the vehicle search twenty-six minutes later.
Nobody left the driveway.
Curtis sat on the curb with his head in his hands.
Bridget remained in handcuffs.
Rosalind sat beside me on the porch while Ronnie brought us water from his truck.
The officers photographed the silver chest, the folder and every visible item before touching anything.
Then they opened the trunk.
There were three more boxes inside.
The first contained jewelry.
Not mine.
Rosalind recognized a pearl necklace that belonged to Judith Crane.
The second contained blank medical forms, two rubber signature stamps and a notary seal registered to a woman who had died the previous year.
The third box was filled with medication.
Small bottles.
Plastic packets.
Disposable syringes.
One officer called Mr. Cole over.
He examined a bottle and looked at me.
“Mrs. Hale, who is your physician?”
“Dr. Samuel Kent.”
“Has he prescribed you anything recently?”
“Blood pressure tablets. Nothing else.”
He held up the bottle.
My name was printed on the label.
ELEANOR HALE.
The prescribing doctor was the same physician whose signature appeared on the emergency guardianship petition.
The instructions read:
TAKE TWO TABLETS AT BEDTIME BEFORE EVALUATION.
Rosalind stood so quickly that her water spilled.
“That is what they gave me.”
Mr. Cole looked at her.
“Are you certain?”
“I saw the packet before the nurse opened it.”
“What did it do?”
Rosalind touched the side of her head.
“I could hear people speaking, but I could not answer properly. I could not walk straight. When they asked me what year it was, I knew the answer, but my mouth would not say it.”
I looked at Curtis.
He was no longer sitting on the curb.
He had moved behind the second police car.
“Curtis.”
He began to run.
He made it as far as the neighbor’s hedge before Ronnie caught him.
The officers pulled them apart and forced Curtis onto the grass.
As they handcuffed him, something fell from his jacket.
A small brass key.
Bridget saw it and screamed.
“Do not let them take that!”
An officer picked it up.
A white paper tag was tied to it with string.
On one side was a bank’s name.
On the other was a number.
Rosalind stared at it.
“That is a safe-deposit key.”
Mr. Cole held it beneath Curtis’s face.
“What is in the box?”
Curtis pressed his lips together.
Bridget shouted from the driveway.
“The real will.”
Curtis closed his eyes.
“And the recording,” she added.
His eyes opened.
“What recording?” I asked.
Bridget looked at me.
“The one Walter made the night he died.”
A chill moved through my body.
Curtis struggled against the officers.
“She is lying!”
Bridget continued as if he had not spoken.
“Walter knew someone was stealing from him. He knew he did not have much time. So he recorded everything.”
“Everything about what?”
She looked past me toward the house.
“About Curtis.”
My son stopped struggling.
Bridget smiled again.
“And about you, Eleanor.”………………
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 4…
